


you bring me honeysuckle

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Established Relationship, F/M, Roommates, also denial is not just a river in egypt for bellamy blake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:13:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6516145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It suddenly strikes Bellamy, one day, that his girlfriend is in possession of what has to be the best hair in the entire cosmos. </p><p> </p><p>Or, the one where Bellamy's fixation with Clarke's hair is totally normal and healthy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you bring me honeysuckle

**Author's Note:**

> i seem to have gotten to the point where my writing is SO fluffy that even i can't take it and have to start swearing every five seconds so as to prevent spontaneous internal combustion.
> 
>  
> 
> (title from Every Day You Play… by Pablo Neruda)

 

 

 

It suddenly strikes Bellamy, one day, that his girlfriend is in possession of what has to be the best hair in the entire cosmos.

 

 

 

It’s the first thing he’d noticed about her when they’d met five years ago. He’d followed Octavia into her new college dorm room, arms loaded down with boxes full of her stuff, and basically stopped in his tracks at the sight of waves of yellow trailing down from a golden crown, haloed by the sunshine streaming in through the one open window. There she was, this princess of the sun, her back to him as she stood over a small tower of her own boxes.

 

The spell was broken pretty quickly when said princess turned around, introducing him to piercing blue eyes and an even sharper tongue acidly inquiring if he was _“planning on blocking the doorway for all eternity”_. (Granted, he hadn’t realised her friend Wells had been hovering behind him, looking to enter.)

 

So, really, it’s her fault that they’d spent the first three years of their acquaintanceship fighting. Okay, well, maybe it hadn’t been the brightest idea he’d ever had — immediately rising to her barb with one of his own, that is. But still, she’s the one responsible for distracting him in the first place, causing him to lose focus with her goddamn beautiful hair.

 

So… _so_ beautiful.

 

Much to his chagrin, it had continued all the way throughout the school year. He’d been sorely unprepared for the amount of time they’d eventually ended up spending together, thanks to his overprotective watch on his sister and Octavia’s tendency to construct and carry out social plans without first seeking the approval of those conscripted for involvement. (And, okay, he’ll admit that the second thing is maybe a little bit his fault too. He won’t pretend to not understand where his baby sister gets her resolute stubbornness regarding doing things for other people’s good, with or without their consent.)

 

Which had (unfortunately, at the time) led to inescapably protracted amounts of time spent staring at his sister’s roommate’s gorgeous blonde waves, noting her habit of brushing them out of her face as she laughed, memorising the way the locks shifted and rippled against each other as she turned her head this way and that. It was all he could do not to slip into a coma whenever they were outdoors, her usual casual messy waves transformed into a gleaming, glistening stream of luminous gold under the warm rays of the sun.

 

Fuck.

 

He’d never thought of himself as a picky dater before. Suddenly, he was making damn sure to go to any and all lengths possible to avoid blondes like the plague. As if he didn’t have enough of a problem trying to put Clarke Griffin out of his mind without a walking, talking, yellow-haired reminder in his bed.

 

He still remembers that one night from Octavia’s sophomore year, when she’d demanded to know what his problem was with Clarke exactly. He’d swallowed and briefly considered telling her the truth: _oh well it’s pretty dang awkward to admit that she catches me staring at her insanely pretty hair about eight or nine times a day, so I work really hard to say the first thing that comes to mind that’s sure to piss her off because I am a master of misdirection ha ha ha what no YOU’RE tripping._

 

He’d then snapped right back into reality and grunted something along the lines of _“nothing, no problem with your precious perfect princess”_.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He’d been surprised when Clarke had actually agreed to move into an apartment with him at the end of her junior year.

 

Well. With him, Octavia, Miller and Raven, to be precise. It was just easier to think of it as moving in with him.

 

(... Shut up.)

 

Hanging out with Clarke had always made him a bit of a nervous mess, but _living_ with Clarke was a whole new ballgame. She was suddenly always _around,_ with her tank tops and paint-stained sweatshirts and endless pairs of leggings.

 

Not to mention her hair.

 

Oh, her _hair_.

 

So, _so_ many incarnations of it, too — woven into a braid, piled up in a messy bun, pulled back into a quick ponytail. Sometimes she’d leave it loose, allowing the golden curls to cascade freely down to just past her shoulders. It always made her look like some kind of twenty-first century Aphrodite, and it was the fucking _worst_.

 

(The morning she’d first stumbled into the kitchen with the most severe case of bedhead known to mankind, he’d wanted to cry into his cereal right then and there.)

 

In the first few weeks, his brain had near short-circuited with the mental effort of permanently vacillating between overwhelming thankfulness and paralysing fear at having her under the same roof twenty-four-seven. The whole thing had rendered him far too busy to keep up with his constant stream of baiting and picking fights with her.

 

With his self-defense mechanism on the fritz, they’d accidentally slipped into more than one meaningful conversational exchange on numerous occasions. They even started spending nights in front of the television together, what with Raven and Miller constantly working overtime and Octavia’s overstuffed social calendar. Within a few short months, they were getting along with each other better than anyone else in the apartment, much to their roommates’ suspicious (albeit delighted) disbelief.

 

“Miller and Raven are jealous because they think Bellamy and I have overthrown them as the new Nick and Schmidt of the apartment,” Clarke had told him and Octavia over breakfast one morning. “I heard them talking last night.”

 

“I believe you,” Octavia had said with a scoff. “No one could make that shit up. Childish dicks.”

 

Bellamy had smiled, hoping neither of them had noticed that he’d been discreetly watching Clarke pin back her bangs so they were out of her face for the day.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

One year later, they were helping Octavia move into her boyfriend's place.

 

Clarke and Raven had walked into the apartment, each holding large boxes, and Octavia had jumped up to guide them into the bedroom. They’d passed Bellamy in the hallway on his way to help Miller with the boxes in the living room, and Clarke had stopped to ask if he could help get her hair out from where it was caught between the strap of her cross-body purse and the collar of her denim jacket. “I would do it, but I’m pretty sure I’m carrying all of your sister’s makeup in here, and I like my head attached to my neck,” she’d said dryly, rolling her eyes fondly at Octavia as she and Raven had turned into the bedroom.

 

By some goddamn miracle, he’d managed to respond with a light _“sure”_ , gently free her hair from the strap with only the slightest of trembling in his fingers, return her bright smile of thanks and continue on his way — all without passing out or devolving into a black hole.

 

When he’d returned to the living room, Miller had taken one look at him and raised a brow, asking, “Why are you _panting_? Damn, didn’t think your brother-in-law’s place was _that_ big.”

 

Bellamy had punched him in the shoulder and told him not to call Lincoln his brother-in-law.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

From then on, it was a slippery ass slope he’d found himself careening down.

 

He’d started finding every excuse he could to touch her hair — burying his nose into it when they hugged hello; stretching his hand out on the back of the couch so his fingers could play lightly with loose locks; gently sweeping her hair back from her face whenever she fell asleep in the living room, sketchpad and pencil still in hand.

 

One time, she’d been stirring pasta sauce over the stove while telling him all about how Jasper had tried to ask her coworker Maya out. He’d been laughing at her imitation of Jasper’s wide-eyed stuttering, and hadn’t even noticed his hand reaching out to brush the ends of her hair back over her shoulder from where they’d been dangling over the saucepan.

 

He just didn’t want any blonde in his spaghetti bolognese, okay? No one wants that.

 

(He knows he’s not kidding anyone. He’d gladly have eaten the stuff if he could. Oh God, is there some kind of twelve-step programme for _this_?)

 

He’s not quite sure if Clarke had noticed all the while. She’d never seemed to react, always continuing with her focus on the TV, or her sketchpad, or whatever story she happened to be telling with unchanging levels of enthusiasm.

 

So he never tried to stop. It quickly became an addiction of sorts, and in no time at all, he was as hardcore a junkie as anyone had ever been for blonde hair.

 

Which is, um, probably not a lot.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The night Clarke first kissed him, he’d been buzzed.

 

Not on alcohol, or weed, or any other real substance.

 

They were on the couch, Clarke curled into his side so she could rest her head on the spot where his neck, shoulder and chest intersected. She’d been making a habit of it in recent weeks, as they'd started finding themselves alone in the apartment more and more often. (Raven and Miller never failed to mention their blossoming dating lives whenever they were home. It always failed to get on either Bellamy or Clarke’s nerves.) He wasn’t about to complain, seeing as it gave him endless opportunities for his hands to play with loose waves of yellow, combing and stroking and rolling between the pads of his fingers, wrapping the ends around his fingers and letting them unravel free before repeating the process all over again.

 

She was basically putting the object of his obsession up for offer on a nightly basis, and he was taking as many hits of the stuff as he could get. It was the only high he’d been interested in for a long, long time now.

 

She’d turned to prop her chin up on his chest halfway through _Prisoner of Azkaban_ , and asked him in a completely neutral tone if he was aware that he had “really great hair? You could do American Crew ads if you wanted.”

 

He’d blinked at her, mouth ajar, unable to respond for a full two seconds. Finally, he’d cleared his throat and worked out a weak: _“… me?”_

“Yeah. It’s kind of annoying, actually.” She’d pushed herself upright, still pressed into his side. She’d hummed softly as she let one hand rake into the back of his mop of dark curls and he was _instantly about two millimeters away from cardiac arrest_. “No product or anything. God, it’s so unfair. You have the most perfect sex hair I’ve ever seen in my life and it’s really fucking _distracting_.”

 

He’d simply stared at her, unable to process _anything_ that was happening.

 

“Uh,” he’d managed, after finally catching a breath. “Um. You too.”

 

She’d grinned at him then — full of affection and amusement, edged with perception that was so _Clarke_ — before reaching up with her other hand to pull his lips to hers.

 

If he’d thought his fixation with Clarke’s hair had been problematic before, after that first taste of her lips, he was pretty sure his new diagnosis was a terminal case of  _'downright fucked beyond redemption'_.

 

Thank every goddamn star in the galaxy that she’d seemed more than happy to keep making out with him for the rest of the night.

 

He had, however, been decidedly ungrateful that Raven had walked in on them just as it was getting good. A crowing Raven is always an insufferable Raven.

 

He’d immediately decided it was beyond worth it when Clarke flipped her off and told her to _“mind your own love life and leave us to ours”_.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Nearly two years into properly dating Clarke, he’s still a little surprised at how much attention he still pays to her hair.

 

He loves brushing stubborn bangs away from her face and out of the piercing blue eyes that see him clearer than anyone ever has.

 

He loves pulling discordant tresses of blonde back over her shoulder so he can kiss the bare skin at the base of her neck, welcoming her weight as she leans into him.

 

He loves that it’s the first thing he sees in the morning, a rumpled mess of sunshine sharing his pillow.

 

He loves burying his nose into it before they go to sleep, pulling her closer with an arm around her middle even though it tickles his nose.

 

He _really_ fucking loves wrapping it around his hand when they’re in bed together, giving it a sharp tug and feeling his cock swell at the wanton gasp or moan it always elicits from her.

 

He’s even learned to braid it. A real French braid, too. He’s recently just about got the hang of fishtail braids. All it took was one wine-soaked night of hiccupped giggles and slurred instruction. (He gets the hiccups when he laughs too hard, okay? S’not a _crime_.)

 

Knowing she’s a huge fan of his own unruly curls certainly doesn’t hurt either. It doesn’t matter if they’re watching TV or hanging out with the gang or making dinner or wandering around the grocery store with a squeaky, half-filled cart. Whenever her fingers trail into his dark locks to rub at his scalp, he fucking dies and goes straight to _heaven_.

 

It’s a pretty damn good feeling, and he tells Octavia so when he shows her the ring.

 

“You fucking weirdo,” she replies through welled-up eyes, her small hand reaching out to clasp his tightly.

 

He stows the ring back into his jacket with a big grin, laughing as he’s sharply yanked into his baby sister’s snug embrace.

 

Clarke frowns bemusedly when they return to the table, trailing off in her conversation with Monty to do a double take at Octavia’s glassy eyes and smudged mascara from across the table.

 

“Everything okay?” she asks in a low voice when he slides back into his seat next to her.

 

He smiles as he brushes rogue strands of gold away from her face, fingers lingering at the warm skin of her neck as he looks into her searching blue irises.

 

“Everything’s perfect,” he says, fingertips dipping into the loose blonde waves, the warm lights of the bar making them glow with streaks of honeyed fire.

 

She smiles back at him and nods, leaning into his touch before turning back to Monty.

 

 _God_ , he thinks as he takes a swig of his beer, hand lightly combing through his princess’s golden curls. _If we ever have a daughter, she better have Clarke’s hair._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I AM A COMPLETE FLUFF GLUTTON. fluffon. gluffton?
> 
> you will never know the self-control it took to stop me from naming this fic "BURIED SWEETLY IN YOUR YELLOW HAAAAIIIRRRRRR (johaaaaannaaaaaaa)".


End file.
